What could've been
by The Girl Who Wanders
Summary: HAPPY BIRTHDAY LEXI! PR, four years later. Even now, with his dull, 'normal' life filled with Cornish pasties, Mary and the seaside, John often wonders what could've been if Sherlock never jumped.
1. Cornwall

**Happy birthday Lexi! WHOO! For those of you who don't know who Lexi (known on here by her alias, Trufflehead) is, she's the kindest, sweetest and most generous person I've ever had the pleasure to know. It's her 15th today, so be sure to wish her a happy birthday!  
Chapters will be up lightning fast, and hopefully the whole thing should be done by tomorrow. So far I've got three chapters, because I feel it would be unfair to make Lex wait :)  
Happy birthday, Lexi, and I hope it's fabulous!  
**

* * *

After the fall, after losing everything, John had moved, deciding himself too old to be dealing with the drama.

He tried to kid himself that it was nothing in specific, just the little things that made him want to up sticks. John had insisted getting on the germ-ridden, crowed underground in the morning, for example, was one of the things he hated the most about London.

Perhaps it was his disposition of a soldier- don't let strangers get near you, they could kill you- but _apparently_ the suffocating crowds made him agitated. However when frightened to go to the GP (as most of his patients were), John had _said _a grouchy, PTSD-affected doctor to greet them had had them shooting out of the door quicker than they were coming in.

Greg sat there and nodded. As did Mrs Hudson, Sarah, Jenny and everyone who asked and had an answer; '_London's too big.' 'Too busy.', 'Too crowded.', _and_ 'I'm too old.'_

Everyone- even _Anderson_- knew different. They knew full well that the man, no matter what fancy-dancey-£269-an-hour-therapist he had, was completely broken. PTSD? Sure; not from the war though. The limp that had returned a few days after Sherlock had jumped? Cleverly disguised now, but not _gone_. Nothing he disliked in specific that made him want to move? Yeah, right. The man was lying though his teeth and everyone knew it. He wasn't bothered by the crowds (not really), or the poor pay, or the dirty underground train that he had to take every day. He had loved London.

It didn't take a genius to deduce why he wanted to leave.

* * *

He'd moved down to Cornwall, which was down the coast and by the sea. Using the money he'd got from Sherlock's death- John'd been very surprised, he sure as hell didn't need a flatmate- he'd purchased a small house.

It was nothing fancy, just an old, Tudor period whitewash with brown beams on the outside and minimal furnishings in the inside. It overlooked the sea, which decidedly John had chosen to be the best characteristic, as it was virtually always the same miserable, stormy grey. It reflected the clouds and the typical English weather. More often than not, in the early days down Cornwall the sea also reflected his mood.

So he'd picked up the pieces, moved miles away from everything he'd ever known and worked in a small surgery about a miles walk away. His days of crime-fighting (how cliché) and blogging were over. He hadn't shut down his blog- he'd once deactivated it, and lasted fifteen minutes before reviving it- but he no longer wrote. His followers had dropped like flies, but John wasn't really worried about that. Just looked- more than he'd care to admit, mind you- at the last post.

He already knew the other posts off by heart, but this was the last, about a week after The Fall itself.

_He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him._

That line. That one always got to him. It just made him condescendingly, irrevocably sad.

* * *

John hadn't bothered to mope- at least, he tried. He was a soldier, for Christ's sake; all he needed to get back into the swing of things was routine. So, as a result, he got up, got dressed, rarely had breakfast (instead opting for a black coffee with two sugars), walked the mile or so to the surgery and, if he felt bothered, ate some lunch. At five o'clock, he'd pack up his bags and walk back home, have a small dinner, then take some Restoril and Ativan and promptly fall asleep.

Life, he told himself, was good. He chose to ignore the gentle ache of emptiness that was always with him in the corner of his mind and the pit of his stomach.

* * *

Three months after, John had taken notice of a new silver Renault in the surgeries parking, although he never actually saw the owner until midday. When he did, he actually saw it through a face full of dirty water.

'Oh God! I'm so sorry!'

John had blinked, clearing his eyes. His scrubs were dripping with filthy water that left a bitter aftertaste of antiseptic in his mouth. He had a scathing remark on the tip of his tongue- that was, until he saw who it was.

Renault-owner had long, auburn coloured hair with a full fringe, which suited her naturally flushed cheeks. Her wide brown eyes were set deep, and, at the moment, were full of apology. John looked down, to see the now half-empty bucket and realised.

'You're the new intern?'

'Y-yes. I swear it was an accident-'

'Interns are now cleaning wards? Since when?'

'Yes, well, only until there's a good patient in, but I swear didn't do it deliberately- I'd been cleaning Mister Frankie's floors and-'

John silenced her by putting out his hand. 'I'm John; there's no harm done.' He gestured to himself. 'See? All present and correct. I haven't half dissolved or anything, otherwise we would have a _bit _of a problem.' After, John smiled- a real smile, for the first time in God-knows-how long. It surprised himself, actually. Renault-owner blushed.

'Mary, um, Mortimer. Mary Mortimer.' She took his hand and shook it gently, as if he were made of glass. 'Lovely to meet you.'

Mary. John liked it. It was short and sweet, with no harsh vowels to poke and prod at your throat.

'Lovely to meet you too, Mary. By any chance, would you like to go for a coffee sometime?'

* * *

The months passed, the years passed, and still John wasn't sure where he stood.

He dated Mary because it was the 'right' thing to do. John was positive he had affection for Mary, he loved her for sure, but he wasn't sure if he loved her like _that._

Mary was stunning. Drop dead gorgeous. Beautiful. As he visited his friends back in London their eyebrows disappeared into their hair; John wondered how he actually had been so lucky to find someone to put up with him and all his quirks, if one could call them that. He was a forty-three year old PSTD-affected ex-soldier, with a hang up on a man who (not only content being a 'fraud' and a 'criminal') had also been dead for four years. He wasn't exactly the best candidate for dating.

Surely, by now, he would be certain that his life was complete? He had a good, steady job, a nice house, and a gorgeous girlfriend that lived to care, and that all his army-mates envied. He shouldn't be doing anything that he only felt was 'right' when his heart wasn't really in it. It was all terribly confusing, and made John's head spin. Eventually, he never thought about the subject and carried on doing the 'right' thing. Even when he proposed to Mary, there was still that nagging doubt at the back of his mind. As soon as she'd said 'yes', it was almost a relief.

His life could now be complete. John could try his very best to be normal, and to shove the high cheek-boned, curly haired detective to the back of his mind. If he retrained his mind, John could hopefully delete him completely.  
John caught himself mentally adding the 'hopefully' part one day. It made John sick to his stomach and, most of all, made him hate himself.


	2. Little wishes

_Something _was off. John just couldn't place what.

He just put it down to wedding jitters. That was it, that was all it was. He drunk his usual morning coffee with a steady hand but a worried heart, and kept his phone firmly by his side.

Then again, hardly anyone texted him now. Well, except for Mary- but those were so few and far between, John had often wondered why he kept the damn thing anyway.

Subconsciously, he knew why; why he was so touchy about getting a new phone or binning the now worn-out one.

If he could have one wish, it would to see one last text. Just one, with the end signed off _'-SH'. _

He knew it would never happen, but he couldn't stop himself from wishing otherwise.


End file.
